‘Mother used to collect bags’, I remember, as the ceiling momentarily flashes a shade of red as a bus rattles by, catching the first light on a Tuesday morning. ‘Whatever happened to those, I wonder…’. The suite looks somewhat bigger in the morning, warmer. I’d been hoarding the covers again last night, his pillow lays at the far edge of the Queen bed, defeated, out of reach. He doesn’t mind, just like he doesn’t mind that I’m not a morning person. He sets off to explore Hyde Park on a jog as I scramble out of the sheets. When you peel the blinds and crane your neck just right, you can see the dog walkers on Park Lane.

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It’s five past four in the afternoon, and the lobby is blissfully empty, save for a smiley porter in uniform by the revolving doors. There’s a pinch of musky oud on a swash of sweet leathery tang in the air, and a titter escapes from at an early-bird cocktail reunion at the Park Room. The ladies are all wearing the latest encrusted Dior flats. “A pot of Earl Grey please, no milk” I request, as I slide into the deep green couch near the quilted leather walls. I decide against the sachet of sweetener as I overhear bits of sugary gossip between strangers from behind the art deco shelving.

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The caramelized marshmallows give way to a cinnamon-y mash of sweet potato. I make a funny noise and he laughs, gobbling a bite of New York Strip off his fork. We wash it down with an Argentine Red, recommended by the host. “We were born in the wrong century,” I surmise, and proceed to painting a picture of The Grosvenor House House in post-war 50’s: teeming with politicians, haughty women of power, and affable families, using a bit of the cheesecake dessert to describe the Dior two-piece I’d have worn to dinner at the JW Steakhouse.

Art and history is second nature to JW Marriott Grosvenor House , opened in 1929 for the very purpose of tailoring to a grand scale. The hotel boasts some 500 bedrooms and a rich portfolio of clients (including the Queen, who is known to have learnt to skate in the ice rink – now the Great Room). Conversation with Christie’s is a series of inspiring and informative features, along with global events across the JW Marriott properties showcasing some of rarest treasures, in collaboration with Christie’s, world-renowned art collectors and auction-house based out of Rockerfeller Plaza, New York. September 5th, we met the teams at the inaugural event in London, and shot this story around the art of appraisal of an iconic vintage Hermes bag, in a cheeky daydream re-enactment of The Grosvenor House in the glorious 50’s.

Primrose Hill, London

You’re about to be let in on a secret that Londoners won’t openly share unless prompted and poked with a heated walking stick. I’m sharing this because I’m an inherent traitor (stems from life-long state of being an expat) and also could do with some brownie points with my readers after a month-ish long hiatus. Best burgers in London? Lucky Chip. Best toilets in Mayfair? The Connaught Hotel. < You might want to pretend you’re pregnant.

I know, the name doesn’t ring a bell – it’s not known like Shoreditch, Notting Hill, or even Brixton – but I can guarantee you know all the residents. They say, one can’t swing a dead cat in Primrose Hill without hitting Jude Law, or Kate Moss. So picture this, midsummer afternoon, twinkling bracelets stacked up one hand, dainty stacking rings on the other, and a binocular around my neck. (I kid…) Not to say that Londoners flock up North to the little pocket of immaculate macaron-coloured townhouses to gawk at celebrities – the actual Hill itself is in fact London’s best panoramic view across the city, with the occasional squaaawk from the tropical birds that reside in ZSL (the zoo) across the road lending a feeling that you’ve successfully escaped the city. Sprinkle in a sighting of Eliza Doolittle at the florist and Gwen Stefani pushing a pram out the pub, and you got yourself a summer blockbuster. You don’t even need to be faux-pregnant to enjoy this bit of town.

*While I have my hubby’s nickname engraved on my own Esencia Friendship Bracelet, I confess that I was this close to engraving the Domino’s Pizza telephone number…

Welcome to my casa! my office! my casa! Oh, I don’t even know anymore. I’ve been freelancing ever since I was about 17, I have a feeling the Home/Office boundary never existed in the first place. I built websites in bed and they still ran fine, bed-bug free. In fact if I remember correctly, a part of this blog was built tangled in sheets – tell me, does it smell of Doritos/down feather when you access this site? It’s only quite recently that I felt the need to allocate a certain corner for ‘work’ purposes… I suspect it’s something to do with the rise of pinterest, or maybe the fact that I am always home working making sandwiches, not necessarily of the good-wife sort either. I’ve been renting this flat since my third year of uni, and throughout the years it has gone through many identity shifts. The trouble mainly being the fact that, while divided into two floors, the flat is technically a studio, so the foyer is our dining room, shoe-storage, and our living area. Upstairs, the desk is in the bedroom, which is also technically the closet as well. And regardless of how many corners I fill with IKEA Linnmons to ‘work on’, I’ve always managed to end up in bed. Or by the fridge, eating out raw dinner ingredients.

What I’m currently finding particularly useful, is to get up in the morning and slapping on a bit of BB-cream, and getting dressed as if going out, heels and all. Figures I’ll be sitting the whole day anyway. That way, when I pop out for snacks the local Turkish don’t remember me as that bum that has a serious TWIX addiction. These days I’ve been drawn to wearing more cashmere, perfectly delicate enough to avoid aggravating eczema, my current favourite being the Iris & Ink cashmere sweater (exclusive to THE OUTNET.COM). I’ve worn it to countless fantasy board meetings, and lunch dates with Mr fridge & Mrs oven.

I think it’s high time I revive this series because honestly it’s quite fun putting together fantasy outfits, like I have somewhere to wear these to. Oh the joy of working from home. Take Look #2 for example – first date? any date? Dates with the hubby usually involves him telling me to go and change into trainers so we can walk his daddy-long-legs pace, and being asked if I ate a hamster because my lips are very very red. Or Look #3 – yeah pffsh, my business meetings usually happen over Skype, me in pyjamas munching on M&M’s, lying that my webcam isn’t functioning. I mean. I just don’t think they’ll trust working with a girl with no eyebrows. I’m kidding. I have eyebrows, please believe me. The colour of the Iris & Ink duchesse-satin top, exclusive to THE OUTNET.COM – hero piece of this month’s three-ways-to-wear – does put me in a rather romantic mood though. Plus, it’s the best kind of silk – those of the super-thick buttery sort that keeps its cocoon-y shape regardless of what’s happening underneath. I guess I can go eat a hamster afterall.

The first few days of Spring, when you can make any sarcastic, over-exaggerated remark and funnily to some extent it will be correct, and for once you get to be a legitimate smartass. (Woo!) This is literally the most sun we’ve had the whole damn year, it’s so beautiful, I am like literally dying – normally this would be classic case of ‘I don’t think she knows what literally means but just nod and smile’, but in April, it’s all technically true! The sun is stronger by day and hanging around much longer; the trees are in full blossom and it’s finally starting to prove the apocalypse wrong. And in my own defense, the last bit is always true, no? Anyhoo. Following up on the previously expressed thoughts regarding my love/hate relationship with London, the sun really is a catalyst. It’s like coming home and finding brownies – it calls for a good snogging-on-the-couch session, which is what the above set of photos is, lucky you.